Dead Mans Hand
by Dancing Tiger
Summary: We all know the death streak Dead Man's Hand in COD MW3, but what if one man actually had to make the choice?


**You all know that in COD MW3, one death streak option is Dead Man's Hand. Now, with the power we have behind the controller, we can click that C4 button without a second's pause. What if someone actually had to make the choice? This is Scarecrow dying here, because I like to be evil and randomly kill off the characters few people even know exist : 3 **

The explosion ripped through the air, flinging cars and metal like they were nothing more than small pebbles. Fire enveloped anything in sight, the red and orange flames tearing through anything that they could find. Gunfire split the air in a shattering, ear throbbing series of shots. The explosion only went so far, though, and Scarecrow had stayed just out of the tongues of flame.

He held his gun in white knuckled fingers, his sweaty palms making it difficult for him to hold the gun in steady hands. He knew that the bodies of his comrades lay behind him, struck down by Russian bullets from Russian guns held by the Russians that Scarecrow hated so much.

Scarecrow swallowed, ignoring the beads of sweat that rolled down his face. He tried to pinpoint the location of the gunfire, but with the heat, sound, and, light flashing it was nearly impossible. In despair, he used his quickly weakening, shaky legs to push forward into the intense heat in search of the Russians.

His search was rewarded quickly. He ducked behind an overturned car, and found that a large source of the flashes and peppering of bullets was coming from a location just to his left. Scarecrow drew in a deep, rasping breath that hurt his lungs, which were coated in black smoke. His hands fumbled clumsily with the clip he was trying to get into his gun, but after a frustrated yell he was able to jam it in with some success.

Scarecrow drew in another breath before leaping to his quivering legs, and firing right back at the Russians. He hoped and prayed that he was hitting something, because the hail of bullets around him only seemed to increase. He ducked back down behind the car and slid another clip into the gun. Scarecrow heard the sound of Russian voices growing louder. His breath began to shake. His only means of communication, the communication that would get him rescued, had been lost long ago in the heat of battle.

Scarecrow felt tears forming in the edges of his eyes, the knowledge suddenly hitting him that this would be a fight he would not walk away from. He would be carried, if he was lucky, or burnt away to nothing more than a pile of ashes. Scarecrow ran a quaking hand through his dust brown hair. The fear was upon him like a lion upon prey. He was going to die today.

As another loud booming rocked the space around him, and the air was filled with a scorching heat. Scarecrow checked how many clips he had left, and realized with remorse that the last one had been slipped into his gun moments ago. Scarecrow jumped back to his feet, trying to ignore the tears that pooled in his eyes as he shot back at the bastards who were soon going to end his life. Scarecrow curled his finger tighter over the trigger, waiting for the automatic gun to empty the last of his ammo.

Suddenly, a searing pain ripped through his shoulder, and Scarecrow dropped to the ground with a cry. His hand flew up to his shoulder an instant after he hit the ground, and he felt a warm and sticky liquid already leaking through his fingers. The pain was fire and ice at the same time, consuming his body from the starting point in his shoulder. He grits his teeth, and tried to draw in a breath, only to find his lungs were constricted to the point where he could barely breathe.

In a wave of pain Scarecrow let his head fall back onto the pavement, ready to let the pain end and the black threatening to consume him do so, but he felt something digging into his back. In immense pain and with great effort, he reached behind himself and found that he had a C4 in one of his back pockets, still unused.

The thought was fleeting at first. Scarecrow barely registered it as a possible option at the time, but it became more and more real as each moment passed, each throb of blood from the wound became more and more painful. The Russians, their voices were fading, to the point where Scarecrow could barely register them.

Using one aching, bruised, and throbbing arm he held it in his hand. The deadly explosive was cradled in his palm with the utmost care. He knew that it could blow him and all of the others to oblivion with a simple, painful motion of his finger. Scarecrow also knew that it would be the last choice he ever made.

The two sides of his mind battled with himself. He knew that if he did indeed pull the button to activate the explosion, there would be no turning back. Scarecrow also felt the fact nagging at him that he would be similar to a suicide bomber, which was the last thing he wanted to be. As his mind began to fade out under the pain, Scarecrow knew that he needed to make this choice soon.

A Russian yell, and the slapping of black boots on pavement was the only encouragement Scarecrow needed. He made up his mind just then, that he was going to do it. For only a brief second his mind flashed back to his family. He would miss them. They would miss him too, but Scarecrow was confident they would know he was only doing his job.

Careful timing was the key now. The voices, closer, closer. Scarecrow closed his eyes and pictured his family, his team, and the rising sun, filling the sky with brilliant hues. A smile fleetingly crossed his face, and as he closed his eyes, Scarecrow pushed down the button.

**I know its short so don't fudging nag me! Love you all! I love reviews too! (I know this is not my best work. I'm sorry- I'm having an off day :-/ )**


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